


Forged Within You

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path to Gambol Shroud was never straightforward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forged Within You

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by bigenderninja. Trans!Adam (he/him) and nonbinary!Blake (she/they).

When they weren’t on the move, Blake watched Adam train.

Kids in the White Fang weren’t supposed to be in the thick of things – even if it happened all the time – so she had learned to make do with rocks and cans, slingshots made in a pinch. They all fell apart or were left behind, but it made her feel like she was doing something. A cop distracted for five seconds was five seconds for someone else to slip away, to twist or bite out of a zip-tie, and whenever Blake’s hands were empty, it made her chest tight. If Adam wasn’t around, she passed out food or painted signs, helped the younger ones count the change they scrounged up on the streets.

But the best moments were here, seeing his sword carve a bright red path through the air and holding the notebook he had given her in her lap. Blake had taken up two pages practicing her letters already, so the rest went to smudgy sketches with the charcoal she’d nicked from a factory run, tracing the shifting lines of his body between techniques. He had told her she was sixteen when they met and Blake could see it, lean muscle growing tight to the bone and almost half a foot too tall for his worn-out jacket.

“When do I get a weapon?” Blake asked, keeping her eyes low as Adam sponged off the sweat from under his arms. Water was rationed here until someone could find a way to hack the pump, but she was used to the smell of barely-washed clothes and musk by now.

It was a reminder of how many Faunus were still left, in its own way, and close quarters meant they always had each other’s backs.

“When you can find a way to make one.” Adam hung his towel from the ledge of their makeshift bunk before dropping into a squat, putting his face level with hers. Without the mask, Blake could see the soft encouragement in his eyes. “Most people forge a weapon because it’s something they want. To be a hunter, a cop, to impress someone. We do it because we need them to survive.”

She nodded, biting her lip.  _Survival_ was the thread that put one day after the next. “But how’d you get yours?”

“My mother gave me the sword before she got hurt, little one. Like your parents did.” Adam sighed, shoulders hunched. “The sheath was broken, though, so I had to build a new one. Scrimped the Dust together, figured out the barrel. It took a few years to make something that didn’t just spit smoke at me.”

Blake let out a laugh at that, picturing his face grey with ash. “So I can do it too?”

“You’ve got this.” He rapped his knuckles against the front of her notebook. “Keep it. Figure out what you need to fight back, to protect yourself, and to run away. A design’s hiding in there somewhere.”

Her jaw clenched, canines grinding against bottom teeth hard enough to leave an ache. “I hate running away.”

“But you’re good at it.” Adam’s fingers hooked under her chin, staying there until she looked up. “The world needs runners, you know. To go where others can’t make it, to carry on a message if no one else gets out. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You don’t run.” Blake protested, sniffling a little.

“Yeah, I do.” There was a twitch at the edge of his mouth, almost a smile. “Just ‘cause I help other people get out before me doesn’t mean I don’t run. It’s what we have to do so they don’t lock us up. Until we make it better. Okay?”

After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

Three nights later, Blake woke up to white smoke searing her lungs from Vale PD grenades, the hard whistle of stun rounds echoing every other bang-tap of real bullets. Adam wasn’t next to her anymore – her eyes had cracked open for a second when he left for his shift on watch, pretending he had slept instead of just staring at the ceiling – but now she heard him shouting from far away. Under the stench of fear and sweat, something was scorched, burning and building heat. Wrapped in her blanket, Blake shuddered, unsure whether to run or hide.

The smoke was getting closer, black now instead of white.

“Blake!” A sharp crack made her ears twitch; wood maybe, or bone. “ _Blake!_ ”

Drawing in a breath through her nose, Blake whimpered when it stung, gagging on the oily feeling inside her throat. “Adam! I’m here!”

He carried her. Past screaming sirens and a clash of bricks and blades on riot shields, so fast that the world was nothing more than splotches of red and blue from over his shoulder, everyone she knew washed out by the lights. Blake had lost her blanket somewhere before the barricade, the tiny keepsakes wrapped in its bundle – a Lien with a hole punched through it, that earring that looked like her father’s had – but the notebook was still clutched to her chest. The cover smelled like salt and copper.

And by morning, there was plenty of charcoal to write with.

–

The pistol came from a dead nomad.

Grimm had torn him open, ribs bared to the sun, but the Beowolf tracks were hours old, so Adam let her get close. Blake sorted out everything he owned into a single line; the clothes were too bloody or torn to be of use, boots two sizes over what she could pad out to wear, but there was Dust hidden in vials along the inside of his belt – one cracked, three still sealed – and the gun, clip empty with a single bullet jammed in the chamber. There was no map or scroll to be found, no sign of a destination; as far as Blake could tell, he had gotten turned around in the middle of the night and never found a way out of the mountains.

Blush’s barrel scraped the ground next to her knee. “Are you keeping anything?”

“I want the gun.” The words stuck like lead to Blake’s tongue. Adam hadn’t let her fire one before, even when they were alone.  _Ten’s too young, okay? Something changes the first time you pull a trigger._ “I’ll carry it, I promise.”

He was quiet for a minute, squinting down at the ground. Daylight had been hard on Adam’s eyes since a flashbang had gone off point-blank in his face, so now she lead in the mornings until twilight eased the pain. It was strange, seeing him wear the mask so much. “You’ll need more than that. Take the Dust too.”

Everything went into her pack before Blake did a quick check for holes and wear. She only had a canteen and half the food, her notebook and pencils used down to the stubs; the gun wouldn’t be much more weight, even if she had to be careful not to jostle the Dust too hard. Just holding the pistol between both hands and feeling the heft of it was exciting, both potential and promise.

“We should get moving.” Adam muttered. “If we don’t make it to the warehouse by tomorrow, we’ll have to chase the rest of the Fang down again.”

The cycle was the same – always moving, bringing more hands to the cause – enough to make a real difference. Word was that a new leader was leading the pack at the next meetup, someone to fill the void left behind after an assassination in the middle of a public street.

No one had been arrested. No one was surprised.

That night, Blake tried to sketch the gun by the dim light of her scroll, keeping the cracked screen angled up against the sole of one boot. Adam slept with his back to her, but Wilt and Blush were close at hand, close enough for her to draw them on the opposite page, deciding what to change and what to keep. No sword would fit on a pistol that size, but a blade could if she found the right knife – or something that transformed.

“You’ve got to break it down.” She jumped at the sound of Adam’s voice, rough-edged with fatigue. “Know your weapon inside and out. Screws and all.”

“You should be asleep.” Blake mumbled back, feeling for the button to eject the clip so she could look at how it fit. When she looked over her shoulder, his eyes were gold halos in the dark, expression unreadable. “The walk’s long tomorrow.”

“There’s a blacksmith in the village we’re going to.” Adam said, ignoring the comment as he sat up. “You figure out what you want, she can probably help you put it together.”

A spark of hope fluttered in her chest. “We don’t have any money.”

“I’ve made a name for myself now.” It was true. Everywhere they went, someone knew his face or remembered his sword. “If I promise a favor, she’ll take it in trade.”

“You already do stuff all the time for me. I want to hold my own.”

“Hey.” The light on the scroll timed out, plunging them into darkness. In lines of grey and a swathe of black, Adam took her hand and squeezed it tight. “You’re family, Blake. You’re all that I have. That’s what you do for family.”

“You’ve got the White Fang.” They gave him gifts she couldn’t, like the long coat shielding his back.

“You’re White Fang too.” Adam smiled, even though it was a little lopsided, as if it hurt. “There’s a mask waiting for you at that warehouse, you know. I was keeping it a secret.”

She blinked. “I thought I was too young.”

“Not anymore.” His other hand went on top of hers, over the gun. “Times are changing.”

–

Blake sparred with Adam whenever they –  _they_  was what felt right now more often than not now, and he had accepted that without question – hadn’t been assigned to a mission, training the muscle it took to bear the weight of the blade and recoil from every shot. Every day was an inch of progress stolen, taken from the world that wanted them exterminated. The sheath deflected back the cheap bullets fired into crowds, and the look on a cop’s face when they were two places at once was priceless. Still, it felt like something was missing.

“I don’t have enough reach, I think.” Blake said, watching Adam sheathe Wilt and put the blade back over his shoulder.

Teeth flashed, bright with pride. “You’re doing great.”

When he grimaced right after, hard enough for it to show, Blake closed their distance in a blur, eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine, it’s just–” A hand went under his coat and came back with a thin sheen of red. “–popped a suture again.”

“You said it was healed.” Blake’s jaw dropped; the lie fell together in an instant, all the hesitance in the last few days. “Two weeks in and out.”

“More like a month.” Adam admitted after a moment, Aura glazing over his eyes for a second. Only so much could be done after surgery; Dust-imbued scalpels cut deep. “They needed me on that train run yesterday, Blake. And they paid for it.”

“We earned it first! We stole more Dust than the Fang’s ever seen before.” And left three guards in critical condition, one dead from Blush’s point-blank shot. It was a miracle the police hadn’t started arresting every Faunus on sight – or really, only a matter of time. “They’re using you. No one at the top is in the streets anymore.”

“They  _made_  us, Blake. Don’t you see the difference now?” He wiped his hand clean, the blood a dark streak that would fade along the black. “Stores have to let us in. Doctors treat us. A few more turnarounds and the quarries will riot. We’ve got the world running scared.”

Blood for blood for blood. Every day there was more and all the numbers were starting to blur together.

“They hurt  _you_.” Blake said defiantly. “That’s all I care about.”

“I know that’s not true.” A copper tang lingered on Adam’s fingers when he touched their shoulder. “You’ve been fighting for all of us since you could walk. Leave it be, Blake. Why don’t you just tell me what you were thinking about before?”

Even the thought seemed stupid now; who cared about making the perfect weapon in a time like this? “Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re a bad liar, little one.” So many years and he was still so much taller, his shadow broader. “That’s a piece of your soul you’re carrying around. It all matters.”

“I thought…I might need more reach.” Blake repeated, mouth locked in a tight frown. “It feels like I missed a step or something.”

Adam was quiet for a minute, jaw set while he considered it. “You should go see the matron. Vila, that old priestess.”

“Is the spirit of Menagerie going to give me some wisdom?” Blake groused. Her tent reeked of incense, a hundred strange charms hanging from the flaps.

A yelp wrenched out of their throat when Adam cuffed one ear, staggering back. “That spirit had another name once and we forgot it. Humans killed all the people who knew the right words. What memories she has is one of the only things we have left. So go show her some respect and maybe you’ll learn something about yourself.”

With his chastising and the scent of blood still lingering, Blake picked the quickest path through the camp, catching bits and pieces of the calm chatter. Almost everyone had a weapon of their own now, crates of Dust more common than crates of food. Kids jumped and played around the armory without giving it a second look, hands angled like rifles as they shot invisible rounds into each other, cursing the name of General Legume in between shrieks of laughter and dramatic falls to the ground.

The tent was bathed in a staggering cloud of incense just like always, but Blake swallowed past the sting and knocked gently against the canvas. “Is anyone here?”

“Come, child.” Vila’s voice was withered and dry, words rasping like two sticks together. “Just don’t let in the light.”

Inside it was warm and cramped, forcing Blake down to both knees to keep from bumping up against the stained hide of the roof. The matron was sitting with her legs crossed, spine hunched low as her fingers worked at weaving, a basket coming into being between both palms. One antler twisted back from the top of Vila’s skull, the other broken base covered with a small cap of tarnished gold.

“What brings you here, mm?” Eyes the color of scorched wood pierced Blake through, even if her brow was narrow and wizened. “Does Adam need more medicine? I told him you can’t force the body to heal any faster, only more cleanly.”

Blake looked down, fighting back a wave of embarrassment. “No, it’s not that.”

“Speak up, then.” Every movement of the matron’s fingers was quick and precise, rhythmic as a machine. “You look troubled.”

“It’s about my weapon.” Purple-lined ears flickered, blood slowly draining from their face. “Adam told me to come here, I don’t know what–”

“Show me.” There was a vague gesture forward. “On your lap, child. Go ahead.”

Magnets clicked as Blake detached the sheath, placing its width across their lap. It was almost long enough to touch either side of the tent, sharp edge turned towards the center. All of the pieces to put it together had been hard-won – shaping industrial scrap in a traveling forge was like trying to carve stone with bare hands – but even when everything fit together, Blake had been left waiting for that connection, the spark that proved it was done.

“That’s beautiful craftsmanship, especially for someone your age.” Vila smiled, teeth straight but dark as marrow. “Has something stopped working?”

“No, it fires fine. It changes when I want it to.” Blake turned the sheath over, frowning. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.”

“It, it, it.” A thin brow arched. “What’s your weapon’s name, child?”

They blinked, looking up at her. “I never gave it one.”

“There’s your problem.” She put the basket aside, rattan hanging from its center like a half dozen tails. “You haven’t even claimed what you put so much work into.”

Adam had teased them about it before, saying to pick something simple, but Blake had spent weeks mulling the idea over only to come up empty. “Is it that important?”

“You’re going to make a life with that, aren’t you?” Vila reached back behind her, letting out a contemplative hum. “What kind of life?”

Guns and blades only had so many uses. “I don’t know. Wherever the White Fang takes me.”

“To an early grave with that attitude.” She huffed, and Blake stared as the matron pulled a heavy labrys into her lap, the curved blades on either side etched with gold. “I cannot even stand, child, but I will always have this axe within reach. Because it is a part of who I am.”

“You were a soldier,” Blake began in awe, “like–”

“No, not like you. Nor Adam.” Vila interrupted, but not unkindly. “I was a huntress. I killed Grimm, not humans. These days, it’s a flip of the coin for which is the greater trouble.”

“But you’re here now.” And no one thought it strange. “Why?”

“Because I was never the sort to end my days by going under the ground and letting the beasts take me. Many Faunus never reach my age, and fewer are reaching Adam’s. Our war did not end with Menagerie’s concords, and I fear to say it may not before I finally pass on. Still, I don’t regret the years I spent destroying Grimm before the White Fang’s banners rose. You are never too old to make a different choice.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t be here?” Hurt entered Blake’s tone, raw and defensive.

“No, child. I am saying you must decide what this,” knobbled knuckles tapped the sharpened side of the black sheath, “is for. Maybe your reason will change, but hiding from all sides will only make you miserable. You would make anyone proud if you fought in their name.”

“Anyone?” They whispered.

“Dead or alive.” Vila replied simply. She let out a rattling sigh, eyes sweeping through the tent. “I would give you something to carry with you, to remind you, but I’m afraid our recent battles have left me rather absent of charms.”

“What’s that?” Blake asked, pointing to a coil of black fabric near her feet.

“Oh, well.” It was plucked up between two of the matron’s fingers, unrolling to its full length. “Are you sure you’d like such a thing? Funeral cloth is a rather grim reminder.”

They had seen it a few times before before, wrapped around someone’s arm or making up the trim of a cloak. The names of dead Faunus were sewn in place from beginning to end, usually of family or friends. Now legendary warriors were more common, with the hope that old strength would be born anew if they were honored, but Blake had never looked at the raw material before, without a single name in place. It had a strange sheen in Vila’s hands, like something was glittering within the weave.

“That’s Dust you’re looking at,” the ribbon was held up to their eyes, close enough to be touched, “what makes it unbreakable. No matter how long your mourning, it persists, as nature was meant to.”

Everything came back to Dust. “I’ll take it…if that’s okay.”

“You’ll save me the sorrow of sewing in new names. Put your wrist out, child.” Blake did, holding still as it was looped around their forearm, the ends brought up and over. “This is how you’re meant to wear the cloth, although everyone finds their own way. Do you understand?”

After a nod, Vila smiled. “Good. Now think on that weapon, Blake Belladonna. It’s important.”

They frowned, looking up at her. “You know  _my_  name?”

“I know everyone’s name in this camp. And their parents, and their children.” One finger traced along the black lattice of the ribbon. “How else would I be trusted to put the right ones here when the time came?”

Blake didn’t have an answer for that before they ducked out of the tent, breathing in fresh air with gulps of relief. Every time their fingers flexed, the cloth tightened and twisted, but it never went slack or slipped loose. The smell of blood was gone too, replaced by the smoke of cooking fires, summoning everyone to eat before the sun fell. In the dark, orders would come, and the choice would be made again.

In the shadows, there might be an answer.


End file.
